


Pulling the Puzzles Apart

by iristigerlily



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iristigerlily/pseuds/iristigerlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 30 ficlits and drabbles based on prompts, mostly Marty/Doc. Tags, relationships and warnings will be added as updates are posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Index

[The original prompts](http://iristigerlily.starfleet.space/post/24468438915/hawkwardeye-using-the-prompts-below-write-a)

**01\. Index**

**02\. Beginning** |  _Marty and Doc’s meeting in 1985A (1/4)_

 **03\. Haze** | _At the 8am shootout, Chester looks right at Doc when Marty gets shot._

 


	2. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marty and Doc’s meeting in 1985A (1/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after some writing encouragement posts seemed to flood my tumblr dash, I wrote a Thing for the first time in years. I may already regret this...

**October 2, 1982**

“You can’t run forever, you little shit!”  
 _Just you fucking watch me_ , Marty thought as his lungs burned. 

He’d managed to tailgate his way over to JFK Drive, but the driver had seen him and stopped so suddenly Marty was thrown from his skateboard. Biff’s goons were behind him, Match at the wheel and Skinhead leaning out the window yelling obscenities.

He’d rather die than be bundled into the back of the truck with them. He knew a beating awaited him when he got home and he knew this time Biff would pack him off farther than San Diego.

Knees bleeding and hands raw from the fall, he took off across the road with the three thugs and the driver of the car yelling after him.

He fell over the small fence piled with trash from the Burger King and blindly scrambled to his feet, making for the shed behind the drive through. If he could get into the small spaces he might lose them as they gave up the chase. After all, where was he going to go but home again eventually? They might just give it up and go back to the casino and he’d have to come slinking back later to await Biff’s wrath.

He could hear their truck revving up as they cut across the traffic to chase him and he dived behind a pile of trash cans and junk.  
“Where’d the fuck he go?” he heard as he looked up in the semi-darkness and saw a chainlink fence.  
 _Do Not Enter_ a large, hand-painted sign warned.  
 _Well fuck that_ , Marty thought as he scaled the fence. Most places around here had barbed wire on top of their fences, but it looked like whoever’s place this was had already had that obstacle removed. It was attached haphazardly around some of the fence, but it looked like it had been taken off -- or cut off -- most of it. 

Creeping around the side of the building, he noticed a gap in the window, opened to let in some air perhaps.  
 _Good enough.  
_ He wrenched the gap open a little more and as he heard the truck pulling to a halt outside the fence, he tumbled into the shed head-first, falling on his back.

“Hands in the air!”  
He was greeted with a shotgun pointed at his face. Too scared to yelp, he just threw his hands above his head, smashing his knuckles against the counter-top he’d tumbled down.  
“Argh,” he hissed in pain and looked past the barrel of the gun to his would-be shooter.

It was an old man, possibly in his sixties, dressed in his pyjamas and a dressing down. He had what looked like soot smudges on his face and for some reason he seemed to be wearing about three watches.

Suddenly, a dawning look of recognition passed over his face, and the shotgun was lowered.  
“ _Marty…_ ” he whispered.

Before Marty had a chance to ask how in the hell he knew who he was, he heard a cry from outside.  
“He went back here!” yelled Skinhead.  
Marty suddenly remembered why he’d broken into the shed in the first place and cast around wildly for a place to hide. He dived under a table before the older man had made so much as a glance towards the door.

The man looked at Marty before seemingly deciding something, leaned over the counter-top, poked the shotgun barrel through the gap and yelled.  
“Get the hell off my property!”

He punctuated this with firing off a round with a deafening _bang_ that had Marty belatedly covering his ringing ears. He was amazed the windows didn’t blow out.

“Holy _fuck_ guys!” came a yelp, presumably from 3-D and Marty heard the trash cans he’d hid behind go tumbling as the goons apparently high-tailed it over the fence.

When all was quiet, the man turned back and placed his gun on the kitchen bench before turning to Marty, still under the table with his hands over his ears. Without a word, he walked off towards a cabinet on the other side of the room, taking long strides.

Within a few moments (and after a few crashes and bangs of items falling) he was back within Marty’s view and had taken a seat at one of the various tables he had around the room. This one had two high stools next to it and what looked like a small laboratory on the work surface. There was also a half-eaten sandwich, so Marty assumed this was also his kitchen table.

“Well?” the man said, gesturing to the other seat. “Come on, Future Boy, I haven’t got all night.”  
Marty hesitantly crawled out from under the table (on which, he now saw, there was a half-assembled car engine) and made his way over to the table.  
“Future Boy?” he asked as he took a seat. On the table, the man had opened a box labeled _First Aid_ and he took Marty’s leg by the calf, holding up his knee for inspection.  
Ignoring his question, the man introduced himself.  
“My name is Doctor Emmett Brown. You can call me Doc, if you like,” he picked out a cotton swab and, after adding some antiseptic, started dabbing at the wound. “I’m a scientist. Or, I was, at any rate.”

“Uh, begging your pardon, Doctor Brown,” he said, “but why are you patching me up after I broke into your place?”  
Doctor Brown continued his ministrations.  
“Let’s just say I knew that you weren’t here to steal any scrap metal or family fortune,” he said, “And I told you, call me Doc. I haven’t been called ‘Doctor Brown’ since I taught at the HVCC.”  
“You taught at the community college?” Marty asked, surprised. “I thought everyone from there was run out of town?”  
“Not all of us,” Doctor Brown -- Doc -- said, tapeing a bandage to Marty’s knee before reaching for the other one.

There was a silence as Doc focused on his work, and Marty had a look around the room to distract himself from the dull ache and occasional sting from his knees.  
“You’re Biff Tannen’s kid aren’t you?” Doc finally asked, quietly.  
“Hell no! No way, I’m not a _fucking_ Tannen!” he yanked his knee back, surprising Doc. “My dad’s name was George McFly and he… he…”  
Marty had to stop there, like he did every time his dad was brought up. His mother hardly ever mentioned him and when she did, she was usually three drinks in and weepy, so Marty was the one who had to hold it together for her.

Doc looked stricken.  
“Marty, Marty, it’s okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I wondered if perhaps somehow we had changed--”  
He wasn’t making any sense, but then again Marty was prone to babbling so he let it slide as he sat back down.  
“How do you know me, anyway?” he asked, wiping his stinging eyes.  
Doc cast a look to the left; towards what, Marty didn’t know. There was just a pile of junk, including some boxes and an old suitcase.  
“I… You’re family is in the papers a lot. I knew your parents briefly when they were young,” he shrugged, “I just put two and two together.  
Marty looked up. “You knew my father?” he leaned forward just as Doc was about to return to fixing up his leg. “What was he like?”

Doc looked a little taken aback.  
“Uh… He… he was…” he paused for a moment before relenting, “He was quite timid and shy. Biff used to give him a hard time at school. But he found his courage to stand up to him and from what I hear, he became a confident young man. I’m sorry, I didn’t know him all that well,” Doc looked down and started cleaning up Marty’s other leg.

Marty sat in silence for a moment. Despite having just met the man, he felt… comfortable and safe here. It was probably a combination of talking about his dad and having just run away from home, but the feeling was there, and strong.

Both knees taped up, Doc turned to his hands.  
“So why were those thugs chasing you?” he asked, not looking at Marty, giving him a chance to talk about it without feeling like he was being interrogated.

“I… uh… I ran away from school, y’see.” Marty said, drawing his feet in together. “Biff sent me to a school in San Diego as soon as I was old enough to go, but I hated it. I missed Mom and Dave and Linda, so I came back on a bus, but…” He had to fight back tears again. “Dave’s in prison and Linda… Linda moved out and Biff won’t tell me where she is and he’s saying I’m going back on the next bus down, and I _can’t_ , Doc, I _can’t go back there_ , I…” he hissed in pain suddenly and Doc pulled back as if burned.

“I’m sorry, Marty,” he soothed, but Marty didn’t think he was just apologising for stinging his hands.  
“Was this a result of Biff’s thugs?” he asked gently, reaching his hand up to his cheek where there was a bruise forming on his cheekbone.  
“No,” Marty swallowed, “Biff himself, actually. He wasn’t pleased to see me back again.”

Doc looked heartbroken, which Marty thought was odd. I mean sure, his life wasn’t exactly something to be envied, but he had only just met the man and already he had Marty spilling more of his personal life than he’d ever divulged.

“I’m sorry, Marty,” Doc said again, “I’m sorry for everything that has happened to you. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Doc got out of his seat suddenly and made his way toward a battered-looking green couch that separated the work from the living area of the lab. He plumped up the pillows and then reached into a laundry basket next to it and pulled out some sheets and a blanket.  
“You can stay here for the night,” he said, starting to make up the couch, “and we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

Marty stood up, shocked. Doc seemed to take his silence for rejection, because he added.  
“If you want to, that is.”

Marty shook his head briefly to snap out of his reverie.  
“I… of course, but… Why? You don’t know me.”

Doc looked down at his feet.  
“I can’t explain it, Marty, but I feel somewhat responsible for you.” He looked up at Marty again, imploringly. “Let me help. It’s the least I can do.”

Marty nodded. “Alright then.”  
Doc smiled for a moment, then he moved quickly toward the pile of boxes and junk Marty had seen him glance at earlier. He yanked out the suitcase from underneath a few open boxes, almost causing a small avalanche. He popped it open and shook off some clothes from inside.

“These should be about your size,” Doc said, holding out what looked like a pair of pyjamas.

Marty took them without comment, but he couldn’t help wonder.  
 _A son? A brother?_

“My nephew,” Doc said, as though reading his mind. “He… hasn’t been around for a while, but I kept his clothes… y’know just in case.” He looked away suddenly, seemingly embarrassed.

Marty just nodded.  
“Well so long as you’re okay with me using them, then.”  
He stepped into the bathroom to clean off the mud and other crap from his skin and clothes. When he emerged a few minutes later, Doc had somehow managed to run next door to the Burger King and there were two large Whopper meals sitting on the table.

He grinned, wiping at his cheek with a towel before walking over to the kitchen-table-come-lab-bench and joining Doc on the same seats he’d been patched up on before.

They ate in a comfortable silence before Marty broke it through a mouthful of burger.  
“Thanks, Doc. No one’s ever done anything like this for me.”  
It wasn’t much, especially compared to the five-star room service he’d been bought up on, but somehow a greasy burger meal with watery Pepsi was the best meal he’d ever had.

Doc just leaned over to pat him on the shoulder.  
“Really, Marty. It’s no problem. Finish your meal, get some rest and we’ll sort out everything in the morning.”  
“Sure thing, Doc.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the first of four ficlits outlining how Marty and Doc in the dystopian 1985 met and what happens to them in the lead up to the events in BTTF II. I dug through all my angsty teenage music for the right inspiration.


	3. Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the 8am shootout, Chester looks right at Doc when Marty gets shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you watch the scene where Marty gets shot, Chester really does glance over at Emmett (or at least, seems to) as Seamus looks away from Marty. He stays looking at him as Buford walks forward to Marty's body, so I thought it would be interesting to see what he might have been thinking.

Chester Galway was not a judgemental man; came with the territory as a bartender. You had to listen to a lot of stories from people you didn’t particularly like, but hey as long as they kept paying for their whiskey, they could use you as their therapist all they wanted.

So when Emmett Brown blew into town one day, a man with seemingly no past, Chester didn’t see fit to push the issue too much. After all, the town needed a blacksmith and whatever Emmett was leaving behind was none of their business.

But the man was lonely, Chester could tell. He’d think it was a ladyfriend, only Emmett didn’t seem at all interested in, well… moving on, so to speak, with anyone in town, Chester’s permanent residents included. He let Jenny and Opal pedal their wares in his rooms so long as there was no trouble.

But when the young man looking like Seamus McFly but calling himself Eastwood came into town and started causing trouble, Chester wasn’t surprised at all to learn he was looking for Emmett.

He didn’t see them together much, but when he did. Boy, Emmett looked like he’d taken ten years off himself. That boy breathed life into Emmett, make no mistake.

So when Chester saw Emmett dancing with the new schoolteacher at the Hill Valley festival, he looked around for Mr Eastwood. He eventually found him, standing on the side of the dance stage like a lonely wallflower and suddenly Chester understood.

Makes sense, after all, for Mr Eastwood to make such a long journey to find Emmett. How long it was, no one seemed to know, as they both remained very tight-lipped about where they came from, but Chester was sure it was far. Emmett had run and Eastwood had chased, and if two souls were willing to go through so much for each other, didn’t they deserve every happiness God could give?

Seemingly not, as Mr Eastwood managed to make himself the target of Tannen’s ire in Emmett’s stead and all Chester could do was shake his head in sadness, as he’d seen Tannen end lives just like Eastwood’s. Maybe that’s what the kid was going for. A grand gesture to save the man he cared for and go out of this world, leaving Emmett with his new lady to be happy together

(Let it never be said Chester didn’t have a romantic heart.)

That was why, when Tannen drew his gun and shot the unarmed Eastwood in the morning haze, Chester almost immediately looked at Emmett when everyone else was looking at the body.

Emmett’s face was ashen. He looked like he’d died a thousand times in that one moment. Chester felt Seamus walk past, unable to watch the proceedings of Buford Tannen gloating over Eastwood’s body.

Emmett had barely moved, but Chester could tell his whole world had just fallen apart. It seemed that Emmett had understood what Eastwood had meant to him, but all too late.

He was forced to look back at Mr Eastwood’s body when it did, in fact, move. Moved to kick Tannen’s gun from his hand, even. Eastwood then stood up, withstanding Tannen’s assault with a smile before revealing his secret.

Chester glanced back at Emmett. Like he thought, the shock and relief on the man’s face was almost palpable. When Eastwood returned to Emmett’s side, Emmett kept a hand on his shoulder, like he wanted tangible evidence Eastwood was still alive.

In a rush, the two declared they had a train to catch and they were gone in a whirlwind of shouts and dust kicked up by their retreating horses.

Going back into his saloon, Chester started polishing his glasses and wiping the bar down as usual. Wherever they were going, Chester sure did hope they were happy.

Life was too short to judge people for being happy, after all.


End file.
